


Drowned Potential

by WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Also set in France and around a protest, Angst, Enjoltaire if you hadn't guessed already, I know nothing about France or protests but I'm trying, M/M, Ma Boys, Self Harm, This is gonna be a long ass fic but guess what bitches I'm gonna finish it, but also fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing/pseuds/WhatCouldBeMoreAmazing
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship had never been ideal. Unrequited love and endless mocking on one side, uncaring determination and harsh insults on the other. So it's not surprising that Enjolras' attempt to reach out to Grantaire would change the course of their rocky friendship forever, for better or for worse.





	1. What Happens When a God is Insulted

Despite being dimly-lit, the room seemed to emit a warm, hopeful glow as the merry band of protestors drank and planned and talked and drank some more. The protest was getting ever closer and their barely contained anticipation was finally getting a chance to shine through that night at the Musain. Excited smiles and bottles of wine merged with colourful banners and pristine red jackets to create a swelling, dancing hub of activity and light.

At least this was what Grantaire saw through foggy, wine-glazed eyes. Slumped carelessly in the darkest corner of the room, even more drunk than usual, he avoided passing out and collapsing on the table by staring aimlessly at his joyful friends, as if he were surveying complete strangers. Mind you, that’s what they felt like sometimes.

Combeferre rolled his eyes and pushed up his reading glasses as Courfreyac disturbed his planning with yet another awful pun, his raucous laughter echoing around the small, homely café. Jehan was absentmindedly using his nail to trace an ink vine surrounded by flowers which swayed and swirled up his arm. Joly anxiously rubbed his nose with his cane whilst complaining to Bossuet (who definitely wasn’t listening but nodded along anyway) about some obscure disease that he may or may not have caught from a stray dog on the metro. Fueilly and Bahorel were hunched over a seemingly bottomless pile of posters, working furiously. What they were working on, Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure, but they were certainly furious about it.

And yet, Grantaire’s hazy vision always slid back to one person. It’s not that his friends weren’t interesting; quite the opposite in fact – they were certainly an eclectic and, uh, eccentric bunch. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the strong figure in the middle of the room, shining with passion and pride. He was a blur of blonde hair, icy blue eyes, ink-stained hands and an almost frightening look of steely determination carved onto a marble face. Everyone else in the room was drawn to him like moths to a light. Grantaire silently vowed to stare at this godly vision of a man until the sight of him was ingrained in his mind every time he closed his eyes.

God, he couldn’t care less about the damn protest they’d been yapping on about for the past few months. At this point, the very mention of the phrases “peaceful protest” or “we need more leaflets” made him want to pour bleach in his ears.

Despite this, when Enjolras speaks, he could make the cynical drunk believe toads can fly and Santa is real. Grantaire used to be ashamed of how much he admired the leader in red, but he soon learnt to not be ashamed of anything (which would be inspiring if it didn’t primarily refer to waking up at 1pm only to get drunk and eventually fall asleep again, AKA Grantaire’s daily routine). But nevertheless, Enjolras’ ability to move him was almost insulting – and ironic, Grantaire thought with a bitter laugh, as he seemed to be completely incapable to turn the tables and move the cruel, stunning stone statue that was Enjolras in any way.

Grantaire was so busy lazily gazing at Enjolras he didn’t notice the short, shuffling figure collapse in the chair next to him with an indignant sigh until he began to address him.

“Bunch of useless buggars, they are. Sat about dreaming instead of getting off their fucking arses and doing something worthwhile.”

Grantaire was too drunk to argue. He knew (from experience) that if this man cared enough to take it up with the rest of the Les Amis himself, he wouldn’t last long. These encounters usually ended in a heated, one-sided debate, the passionate protestors’ words mercilessly attacking a bemused drunkard whose only goal was to complain about anything and everything.

In fact, it seemed that Grantaire was the only bemused, complaining drunkard they could handle.

“Not to mention that one in the middle there. You know, the leader. Full of shit, he is. Thinks he’s going to change the world – ha! Looks like a teenage girl anyway. Bet he can’t even change a damn tyre.”

Every muscle in Grantaire’s body froze, then melted as a burning anger swept through him. He didn’t care if people insulted him. He didn’t care if they insulted everything his friends stood for. But the moment someone insults Apollo… Before his mind could completely process his actions, he had swung around in his seat and his fist had made contact with the man’s face. There was a clatter of wood on wood and several yells as the man toppled backwards off his chair. That’ll show the little shit. Grantaire took a swig from his bottle.

“what the hell, Grantaire?” Enjolras had come marching over and his unforgiving eyes were glaring right into Grantaire’s. The others continued with their planning, either hiding their laughter or looking a little fearful for Grantaire’s life (but he did get a “HA! GOOD ONE R!” from Bahorel).

“He insulted you! What did you expect me to do, Apollo? Just sit here and watch him insult a man as perfect as yourself? It should be a crime to suggest that you have a single flaw. He deserved what he got, and I stand by it.”

Grantaire saw the opportunity to shower Enjolras with (only slightly mocking but entirely true) compliments and he took it. The furious glare of the “god” didn’t falter.

“It’s the only thing you’ve ever stood by.” “

I’ll stand by you.”

“Well do that then, rather than punching people for me and interrupting important meetings!”

Grantaire grinned his wonky drunk grin. “Anything for you, Apollo.”

And as he gazed at the exasperated paragon of beauty before him for far too long, desperately searching for a way to melt those frozen eyes, he almost forgot about the furious drunk man sprawled on the floor, his nose bleeding profusely.

That is, until said man scrambled up and returned the favour he’d suffered barely a minute earlier.

The world spun for a second as Grantaire felt blood slowly start to drip from his own nose. The room exploded with noise – the second anyone lay a finger on their friends the Les Amis were there ready to fight. But he was only pulled out of his daze when the bartender grabbed his collar roughly, dragging him out of the café and onto the street, the other man thrown straight out after him.

_Crap._

Scrambling to his feet, he spun around as best as he could to see that angry-drunk-man was already standing. Grantaire braced himself. He knew how to box – he’s won many a proper fight – but alcohol slows the mind and the reflexes. Besides, the opposition wasn’t even that drunk. Nevertheless, as another punch was swung vaguely in his direction he managed to dodge it with ease and throw another one right back. Something seemed to crack sickeningly as fist came into contact with mouth. This dragged on for a while, both men suffering several blows, but Grantaire undoubtedly winning - if there was such a thing as a winner in this situation.

“Stop!”

Enjolras came running out of the café and stood – almost protectively – in front of Grantaire, not even touching the other man, but somehow forcing him to stumble backward, as if his authority was a shield. He towered over him, anger blazing in his eyes.

"Do you do this often? Pick fights with strangers because you have nothing else to do? There’s an entire world out there and you’re stuck stumbling bar to bar complaining about the people who want to improve it. It’s pathetic. Go home, and I hope for your sake that one day you’ll realize there’s more to life than watching from the sidelines.”

Grunting slightly, the man began to shuffle down the road, leaving behind a trail of colourful curse words. Grantaire leant heavily on Enjolras, a grin growing on his face despite his bleeding nose and black eye. He would never understand how Enjoras could hit someone so forcefully without laying a finger on them – he’d experienced it first-hand. In a moment of immature elation, he yelled out to the fuzzy silhouette stumbling into the night. “Yeah, that’s what I thought!”

Without warning Enjolras stepped out from under Grantaire, nearly making him collapse. When he looked back up he realised with dismay that the rage in the leader’s eyes was still burning bright.

“Grantaire, you have to stop doing this. You’re going to get yourself killed one day! Everything I said to that man? It goes for you too.”

Maybe it was Grantaire’s imagination – or the alcohol’s – but there was almost a hint of concern in Enjolras’ harsh words. He felt like he was being stabbed in the gut, but every wound was bandaged and cleaned as soon as it had been made. In a way, it hurt more than being left to bleed to death.

As Enjolras turned away, Grantaire shouted out in one last futile attempt to make his Apollo stay.

“Don’t I even get a thank you?”

It was intended as a joke, but as the words slipped out his mouth desperation seeped through the cracks in his voice.

Enjolras paused, almost completely through the door of the café, and sighed, not bothering to turn back around.

“Go home, Grantaire.”


	2. An Unwanted Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes Enjolras' advise and goes home after the fight at the Musain, but is interrupted by a surprise guest.
> 
>  
> 
> ...
> 
>  
> 
> (Why does this sound like a summary for a bad sitcom episode lmao)

Blood.

Bright red.

Like a poppy.

Like a heart.

Like the jacket of a leader.

Like a burning anger.

Grantaire cursed as it dripped onto his rug, probably staining it forever. He hadn’t noticed it was hitting the floor until he shakily took the blade away from his arm and drifted back into reality.

_“Go home, Grantaire.”_

The worst part was that Enjolras was right. Everything he had said to that man applied to him too. They were the same, him and that faceless drunk, and he hated it.

Somehow, Grantaire had made it into his apartment and straight to the bathroom. The memory of how he ended up with a blade in his hand and fresh cuts on his arm escaped him, but an educated guess said it had something to do with alcohol and rejection.

When drinking wasn’t quite enough, the pain made everything fade, so all the sharp edges and harsh truths became soft and gentle.

Grantaire had always preferred being numb.

Drinking helped numb the pain of thin blades slicing through his flesh, guided by shaking hands, seeping blood that looked almost black in the dark of his apartment. And the cuts and bruises that littered his body numbed the pain of existing. As others laughed and played and loved and lived their lives, he was just… existing.

It was like floating.

No. Sinking.

Not drowning. When someone drowns they’re afraid. They scream silently as the water engulfes them, grasping at nothing as they disappear beneath the waves. But sinking is different; Grantaire never screams. He watches the world go by above him, oblivious to the man being dragged deeper and deeper into the murky waters beneath them. But he’ll be damned if he closed his eyes.

_You’re thinking too much, Grantaire._

Run the blade under the tap.         

Wrap the cuts up and roll down the sleeves.

Erase the evidence.

And he had gone weeks without picking up a blade. Ah well.

Grantaire almost jumped at the sound of a sharp rap on the door; it was far too late for visitors. Dread filled his mind as he realised there was only one person who ever called this late. With a sigh of defeat, he made his way to the door and swung it open.

“Grantaire! How are-“

“Montparnasse, I swear to God, if you don’t piss off on your own accord, I’ll do it for you. I don’t want anything to do with whatever mess you’ve got yourself into this time.”

Montparnasse chuckled, his annoyingly handsome face breaking out into a charming smirk, the cold yet somehow sincere laugh seeming to lower the temperature of the room significantly.

“You always were the saintly one, Grantaire.”

The irony of the comment wasn’t lost on Grantaire. In a room full of kind, intelligent, hopeful young men he was a disappointment lost in the shadows, but in a room full of crooks and addicts he was mocked for any morals and honesty he clung onto. To put it short, he couldn’t win, but he’d rather take being stuck in the shadows any day.

As bad as he was now, he was without a doubt ten times worse than he was a while back, his regular haunt being much shadier and filthier than the Musain. He was trying to forget the world the night before he woke up in bed with that dainty-looking man, a few years younger than him, sprawled across the bed and murmuring something in his sleep. He had seemed harmless in that moment.

When Montparnasse woke up and they started talking - and a few of the memories of the night before re-emerged in both their minds – it soon came to light that he was much less innocent awake than he was asleep. He had deep roots within that community of criminals and he clearly wasn’t going anywhere. He wandered alleyways at night with a knife in hand and sold drugs he wouldn’t even take himself. He wore clothes he could never afford and had a different person in his bed every other night.

And yet, he could be kind and funny, so Grantaire stuck around. He soon noticed that what really brought out his gentler side were the children – children living in the roughest neighbourhoods in town, who spent the majority of their days running through the streets, and already following in the footsteps of men like Montparnasse. Grantaire guessed that he felt like an older brother to them, and he protected them fiercely, no matter what.

A man – practically still a boy – who played games with children by day and mugged unsuspecting pedestrians by night. He was a walking irony.

After Grantaire had (thankfully) discovered the Musain and met the Les Amis, he saw less of Montparnasse. But every so often he’d appear out of the blue, with a winning smile and a favour to ask. Grantaire didn’t want to be involved in Montparnasse’s, um, affairs – he never did – but sometimes he just couldn’t bring himself to deny his old friend.

He stood at the door now, already resigned to the fact that he was going to give in to the charismatic criminal, and sighed helplessly.

“What do you want, then?”

“A place to stay. Just for the night, I promise, there's just a few people I’m, well, _avoiding_ right now and I can’t afford to be predictable.”

Grantaire snorted. “You could never be predictable Monty. And fine. But only for a night, okay?”

Montparnasse stepped through the door the minute the words left Grantaire’s mouth. “I knew I could rely on you. But call me Monty again and you won’t live to tell the tale.”

With a shrug, Grantaire threw a pillow and a blanket onto the couch and walked into his own room. “My place my rules, Monty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it's short but it's here! Yay


	3. An Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac decide the feud between Enjolras and Grantaire has gone on too long.

“So I was thinking. I know we planned to meet here, but if we go up the street to the Musain it would be more public and-“

Enjolras was rarely deterred from his planning, but after fifteen minutes of silence from the two friends who usually had the most input, he knew something was up. Confused, he abandoned his sentence and looked up at Courfeyrac and Combeferre sitting on the couch opposite him. Combeferre was biting his lip, seemingly deep in thought, and Courfeyrac was bouncing his leg up and down in a futile attempt to burn off his extra energy, glancing over and Combeferre every so often, as if waiting for a que. They almost seemed… nervous?

Enjolras sighed in defeat. The two of them had come over to his so they could go over some extra details of the protest, but they’d barely said a word since they walked through the door. Clearly there were other things on their minds. Leaning back in his chair, Enjolras asked the question he already knew he’d regret.

“Alright. What’s up?”

As if awoken from a trance, Courfeyrac sprang into action, the nervous air round him somehow disappearing immediately.

“Right. Enjolras, this is no longer a planning session. This is an intervention.”

“What?”  
“Enjy, you know we love you mate, but we’ve noticed how you’ve been treating a certain lovable drunk recently – well, since you met, really – and we can’t be having it anymore.”

Enjolras frowned, racking his brains for a lovable drunk. To him, those two words didn’t tend to correlate. All of a sudden, he laughed out loud and looked back at Courfeyrac incredulously.

“Wait… you mean Grantaire?”

Combeferre had been silent up until that moment. All his friends know that it’s a dangerous thing when Combeferre goes silent for a while – it means he’s thinking, even more than usual, and constructing a fool proof argument or ingenious philosophy in his mind. And when he starts speaking again, there’s no arguing back.

“We know you two aren’t exactly the best of friends, and we don’t expect you to be. You’re polar opposites. One of you believes in many things and fights and cares for them, and the other believes in nothing and drowns his sorrows in alcohol. But they aren’t wrong when they say opposites attract, Enjolras. He admires you, believes in you. Would it hurt to be just a little more gentle and kind towards him? Sure, he frustrates you. But I think you judge him too harshly. He’s been our friend almost as long as the group’s been together, and yet you’ve never really got to know him. To you, he’s just the nuisance in the corner.”

For once in his life, Enjolras stumbled over his words. The very idea of Grantaire admiring him seemed ridiculous – the constant mockery and teasing didn’t exactly scream admiration.

“W-well, he is a nuisance! And he _does_ sit in the corner! Besides, I wouldn’t say I’m unkind towards him. I’m perfectly civil.”

Courfeyrac raised one doubtful eyebrow. “Yesterday he got into a fight to defend you, and you left him out in the dark to walk home drunk after lecturing him about wasting his life.”

“I broke up the fight! And I could hardly bring him back into the bar, he’d gotten himself kicked out. I gave him some decent life advice and sent him on his way. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Combeferre spoke up once more. “Okay, new example. Two weeks ago, you riled him up so much he smashed a glass with his bare hands.”

“It was a political argument, and he’s very strong. He boxes, you know.”

The other two were now taking it in turns to throw examples at Enjolras without seeming to have to even think about them before they did. It was quite unfair, in his opinion.

“What about that time you were both arguing so much the next day you had both lost your voices? That was a welcome relief to the rest of us, you should know.”

“Or the time you said he – and I quote – ‘drinks so much he’s likely to transform into a bottle of wine one day, and it’ll be a joyous day for us all, because then he’ll finally stop speaking’?”

“Or when he literally opened his mouth to speak after you’d finished a speech and you threw a stack of newspapers at his head?”

“How about when he called you a ‘God whose intelligence and beauty could not possibly be of mortal men’ and you responded by calling him a ‘stale baguette wearing a wig’?”

“Or two weeks ago when you yelled at him so much Marius started crying from the other side of the room.”

“I still have that video.”

“Good. It’s blackmail now.”

“Alright, alright! I get it!” Finally Enjolras intervened, throwing his hands into the air in defeat. “So maybe I’m a little harsh towards him. But- that’s just how we interact. How am I meant to change it?”

As Enjolras looked back up at his friends, there was a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes, a genuine plea for help. The thought of hurting one of his friends – even Grantaire – was a fear of his, deliberately buried so deep into his mind he sometimes forgot it was there. How could he have been doing that exact thing all this time without realising? Shame flooded him without warning. He was supposed to be better than this.

Courfeyrac raised one eyebrow, amused but also slightly concerned. “Dude, just talk to the guy. Get to know the real him. Theres this wonderful thing called socialising, ever heard of it? Now might be a good time to try it out.” Suddenly, he checked the time and leapt up.  “Speaking of which, I met someone a few days ago I planned to, uh, _“socialise”_ with tonight, so, gotta dash.”

As Courfeyrac leapt up with a less excitable Combeferre following in his wake, Enjolras wrinkled his nose ever so slightly. “Gross.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “For the last time Enjy, it’s not gross, you’re asexual. See ya.”

Chuckling slightly, Combeferre turned back to Enjolras one last time. “Well, you can’t argue with that.” He stopped, words on the tip of his tongue that he was only just holding back. “Just… give Grantaire a chance, okay? You might be surprised.”

And with that, they were gone.

Sighing and running a hand through his unkempt yet seemingly glowing locks, Enjolras pondered on what exactly he’d just agreed to. How was he supposed to talk to a guy he’d basically only ever argued with? And yet, the guilt of ever possibly hurting his so-called friend weighed heavily on his soul; the less terrible things a person does, the more the few crimes they’ve committed cling to them, and refuse to be shaken off. As a man who, to the naked eye, could do no wrong, Enjolras’ crimes drag him down so much he has to find a way to right his wrongs before he drowns.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts, it was only when he had sat back down infront of his laptop did he realise they never actually got around to organising any more of the protest. Ah well, a few cups of coffee instead of a night of sleep would be all he would need to sort what they had been discussing, and the others would just have to suffer the consequences of not giving him their input.

Halfway down the street, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were walking in silence, until the former spoke up.

“Ten euros say they’re together by July.”  
“That’s six months! Twenty says three.”  
“You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Enjolras and Grantaire will actually interact in the next chapter whoops


	4. In Which Plans Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras doesn't get nervous. He just doesn't. Until he'd faced with the task of fixing the relationship between him and Grantaire which never really existed in the first place.
> 
> Well, coffee's a good start, right?

The rain was hurling itself against Enjolras’ coat, angrily trying to force its way through the red fabric and slither down his spine or speckle his eyelashes. He hunched over, pulling his hood over his face until all he could see was his shaky reflection in the puddles in front of his feet. As the Musain came into view, he gratefully picked up his pace until he was practically running to reach the door, like he’d drown if he stayed outside much longer. But as his hand hovered over the door handle he froze, letting a few raindrops sneak past his waterproof armour and onto his flushed face while he tried to compose some sort of coherent thought in his unusually muddled brain.

Enjolras had to explain the new plan to Les Amis today. He also had to convince them that relocating the protest was a good idea and that they had enough time and resources. He had to check with Joly on how much attention the protest was getting on social media. He had to get that paper he’d been working on in (it was two weeks early but if he handed it in any later than that it would feel as good as late). He had to ring his parents, who had been complaining about how little he’d talked to them recently.

But he couldn’t focus on any of these tasks because today was the day he also had to talk to Grantaire.

It was ridiculous really. Why was he so worked up about it? Enjolras never got nervous. Throw him onto a soapbox in front of an impatient and uninspired crowd? He’d have them hanging on to his every word in seconds. Tell him he has to write an essay to be handed in the next day? No problem, sleep could wait. Force him into an uncomfortable social situation, a party or a family event? When he wanted to, he could charm his way out of anything. Whatever life threw at him, he took in his stride.

But apparently, talking to drunk cynics was not included in that realm.

“… Hey, earth to Enjolras? You’ve been standing in front of that door for like a full minute now. Any longer and we’ll both be getting hypothermia.”

Enjolras was jerked out of his unsteady train of thought by Joly, who stood behind him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, but a smile playing on his lips nonetheless. He shook his head.

“Sorry, just thinking. Let’s go in.”

The moment he walked in he scanned the room for Grantaire, finding him in his usual dark corner, that permanent apathetic look on his face. He looked worse than usual, Enjolras noted in his mind; his mess of black curls looking more like a bird’s nest than a mop for a change, heavy blue rings under his eyes that at first looked like he’d fallen asleep with eyeliner on, and red and gold paint splatters lining his unshaved jaw. But if you looked closely, there was also a sort of glint in his eyes that Enjolras had never noticed before. He wondered if it had always been there.

The meeting was not one of his best. He hurried through what he had to say with half as much passion as usual. There was a mist in his mind that he couldn’t see past and he knew it was futile to try. So he just continued on, half-listening to his friends and agreeing with the majority of what they had to say (he drew the line when he heard Bahorel say they should spread the word about the protest by having a smaller, tester protest a week before), until they had finally exhausted all their thoughts and ideas and zealous discussion had dwindled into casual chatter. Then, after a quick glance at Combeferre and Courfeyrac (who were laughing at something or another but both gave him enthusiastic and not-so-subtle thumbs up when they realised where he was going), he headed towards Grantaire, trying not to think too much about his opening line.

_Grantaire, my dude! How have you been since the last time we properly talked? Which was never?_

_Wow, the weather’s terrible today. Though your cynical mind probably noticed that already, didn’t it?_

_Put that fucking bottle down R, it’s time to get real._

_How’s my favourite argumentative alcoholic sceptic?_

_So, R, sorry for being a complete and utter dickhead to you half the time, even though you’re the one who starts it nine times out of ten. Maybe we could both agree to be a little less dickish?_

“Hey Grantaire, how’s it going?”

 

* * *

 

 

What. The fuck.

Why was he here? Walking over to him? Today, of all days?

Grantaire had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed Enjolras head over to his table but, goddamn, he should have. As usual, the leader seemed to radiate light so much that Grantaire felt strangely exposed, as if someone had just shined a torch directly on his face.

Not noticing Enjolras only proved to Grantaire how tired and anxious he was right now. It had been three days since Montparnasse arrived at his house and, despite having said he’d only be there for one night, he was still there, seemingly hiding from whatever dangerous criminals or fierce police officers were after him under a blanket fort on his sofa. Grantaire was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t want to kick his friend out, and the last thing he wanted to do was to see him get hurt, but at the same time… he couldn’t be dragged back into that life. He just couldn’t. Even if he’d never gotten involved with the criminal side of things, that had been a dark, dangerous time for him and he didn’t want to risk going back.

Why couldn’t Enjolras come over on a day when he wasn’t racked with anxiety? Or at least a little more presentable?

“Hey Grantaire, How’s it going?”  
“Uhh… good, yeah, alright. Fine. Thanks.”

Enjolras laughed a little, but it wasn’t a mocking laugh. On the contrary, it almost seemed nervous. Raising his eyebrows, Grantaire looked up, making direct eye contact, and barely held back his shock when he saw a worried look in those usually self-assured eyes. Enjolras wasn’t great at hiding his emotions – that showed when he burst into fits of passion or rage – and right now it showed.

“So… can I sit here?”

“Sure.”

The next few seconds dragged by painfully slow as Enjolras scraped a chair across the wooden floor and sat down, biting his lip as if he wanted to say something but was holding his words back. After what seemed like enough time for Grantaire to say ‘fuck it’ and just leave (which he was half tempted to do) Enjolras set the words free.

“Okay. Grantaire, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For, you know, leaving you out in the cold to walk home alone last night. That was pretty awful and uncalled for on my part. You shouldn’t have picked a fight with that man, but I understand you were only defending me. So… thank you. And sorry.”

Grantaire stared, speechless. Before he had a chance to open his mouth to inform Enjolras that he walked home alone every night regardless, Enjolras took his silence as an invitation to continue. His uncertainty had begun to fade away, and he started to sound much more like the eloquent statue Grantaire was used to.

“I know we haven’t always got along, and we certainly haven’t been close friends. But it doesn’t have to be like that! Maybe if we actually got to know each other – properly, instead of throwing unimaginative insults at each other from opposite sides of the room like some sort of half-hearted game of dodgeball – we could remedy that. We might be different, Grantaire, but that doesn’t mean we have to be against each other. I’m willing to try. Are you?”

Grantaire’s tongue had doubled in size and it was now blocking any words foolish enough to try and get out, as well as making it irritatingly difficult to breathe. He took a swig from his bottle and suddenly there was space.

“I’ll have you know Apollo, I take great pride in the insults I throw at you. A lot of thought goes into them. Endless sleepless nights of planning - and for what? For you to call them unimaginative? To toss my gifts of wit aside like a ragdoll? I’ll admit it, Apollo, I’m hurt.”

Grantaire feigned heartbreak but quickly dropped the act when the familiar look of exasperation began to creep onto Enjolras’ face.  

“But you’re right. We can’t be assholes towards each other forever. I don’t usually try at anything, but I’ll try this.”

A charming but relieved smile as rare as the goddamn Hessdalen light spread across Enjolras’ face.

“I hoped you’d agree. So do you want to meet up tomorrow, maybe?”

Grantaire looked down, suddenly finding a notch on the table fascinating, so the confident god in front of him wouldn’t see his sheepish grin. _Stay casual, idiot._ He composed himself and looked up, nonchalant as always.

“The best coffees at Lamblin's. I’ll text you and we can meet there.”

“Sounds good.  I’ll see you there.”

As Enjolras got up to leave half of Grantaire wanted to shout ‘wait, stay! Talk to me like a friend again!’ and the other half was just relieved it could get back to not caring about anything other than the rest of that beer. Before Enjolras turned to leave, however, he paused and looked back at Grantaire.

“Oh, by the way, you’ve got something on your neck, paint I think… nope, other side… yep, got it.”

And then he was gone.

The light seeped away and Grantaire slumped back in his seat, fingers tapping his drink thoughtfully.

What the hell was that?

 

__

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here!! And they interacted!!
> 
> Okay, real talk: Enjolras is fucking difficult to write. He's a pretty damn unrealistic character in the brick - I think Victor Hugo wrote him to be symbolic and sort of embody the youthful but strong ideas of the time and the rebellion itself. So when it comes to fanfiction, he's pretty hard to humanise and put into normal situations. I feel like there's three holes a writer can fall into without even realising it: 1) Making him an unrealistically flawless god, 2) Making him an emotionless arsehole and 3) Slipping completely out of character. I'm trying not to fall into any of these but it's hard not to - especially the ooc one. So if you notice Enjolras starting to sound like any of these, do me a favour and call me out!


End file.
